Hesk the Shrouded

Hesk's people came from Qeshra, a world of low skies and black seas that no one remembers anymore.

No one but her.

The Qeshri were born with many eyes, because on Qeshra the light arrived weak and crooked, and whoever couldn't see in every direction didn't live to grow old.

One day they set out into the void in search of a home. They never returned, and their world didn't wait for them either.

They ended up here, on a world that wasn't theirs, as far from home as anyone can be.

And here they died out. Slowly. Long before anyone else arrived.

Hesk was among the last to fall. She healed her people as they died, one after another, until there was no one left to heal.

Centuries later came Glurboc the Worldbreaker, alone, his voyage in pieces.

The first thing he found were the remains of the Qeshri.

For a Nyxarai, speaking with the dead is not taboo. It is memory. So he spoke to them.

And some answered.

Hesk answered, but so little was left of her that she couldn't even rise without falling apart.

Glurboc wrapped her. Bandage by bandage, layer by layer, until what remained of her held together.

That is why they call her the Shrouded.

Only her eyes show beneath the bandages. Many of them. All open. Never two blinking at once.

Hesk knows better than anyone in the Empire of Nyxthara how little it takes for a body to break for good.

She was one bandage away from breaking forever.

That is why she heals. She sees the crack before it opens and seals it before it bleeds.

That is why she protects. She knows a shield in time is worth more than a hundred late cures.

And that is why she kills. Because the same hand that knows how to close a wound also knows where to open one so it never closes.

Hesk sees no difference between the two. It is the same knowledge, seen from the other side.

Every blow she takes, every curse she tears off, every ally who falls and rises again, builds up inside her.

That is what Momentum is to her. Not rage. Memory piling up, pressed beneath the bandages like a scream.

When there is no room left, the bandages loosen and Hesk unleashes all of it at once on whoever stands before her.

What remains afterwards cannot be mended. Nor does she try.

When someone in the Empire takes a critical hit, every one of her eyes locks onto whoever dealt it.

From that moment on there is no healer. There is hunger.

Glurboc adores her for it. He has seen many kill out of duty. Hesk enjoys it.

She has taken the Veil. She walks in Darkness and asks no one's forgiveness.

She is neither soldier nor slave. She is the last memory of the Qeshri, and she will not let anyone else erase it.

As long as someone keeps speaking to her, Qeshra will not be entirely dead.